Surrendering
by LoveChilde
Summary: A 'what if'- post Lady Heather's Box
1. Default Chapter

Surrendering  
  
A/N: Well, I've searched all over the place for something like this, and haven't found it, so I decided to get off my lazy ass and write it, if only for myself. This story will have themes that some people might find offensive, but none of them are in the first chapter so you're safe. Spoilers up to and including Lady Heather's Box. Rating is R for mature themes. Oh, and reviews? Love those. Song for this is of course Surrendering, by Alanis Morissette.  
  
*****  
  
Then.  
  
He didn't climb those stairs that night. He sat in his car for two hours, staring at the door, then drove home and went to sleep. He wasn't that far gone yet, he told himself.  
  
Now: Cases came and went, six weeks had passed, and things went back to normal. Catherine seemed to be handling Eddie's death, Warrick was back on track, and Gil, though slightly more distant than usual, led the team with his usual efficiency. In the flow of robberies, murders, rapes and other unpleasant ventures, only a few stood out.  
  
An example of such a case was starkly clear that night, awash in the mocking silvery light of a half moon, which cast a surreal shadow on the grisly scene. Sara sucked in her breath through her teeth.  
  
"Forth one in under a month." she said quietly.  
  
Gil nodded. It was clearly the same method of the killer the night shift had been tracking. The same subject, too- a young child, hogtied in a shallow grave by the road, fingertips, feet and eyes missing to make identification harder. Their heartbroken parents identified them all eventually, but the killer was clearly playing a game with them. The children- two boys, a girl and now another boy, had been raped before being killed with a single blow to the back of the head with a blunt object, and the cutting had been done with surgical precision. All had been happy, healthy children from different parts of the city, unconnected to each other. All were declared missing a day or two before being found- the killer was working fast. And there was practically no evidence. No hair, fibers, blood, skin- nothing. There were no fingerprints, no motive so far other than sheer perversity, and it was getting worse. The media was all over it too, hounding the police and the CSI's with phone calls and lurid headlines. Other cases appeared and were solved and shelved, but the constant dread of another murder, another distraught family was always in the air. Gil felt slightly guilty about letting Sara and Warrick deal with the families, but after the first time he just couldn't take it. He'd pulled Nick and Catherine from the case within ten minutes of seeing the first body and their reaction to it, and the other young CSI's were taking the brunt of the case.  
  
After meticulously processing the scene for inexistent evidence and bagging the small body, they returned to the lab, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Gil braced himself for the autopsy and sent Sara to sit in with Brass when he told the boy's parents. After years in the field it surprised Gil that child autopsies still got to him sometimes, but he was a master at detaching himself. Still, it was all he could do to sit there and listen to Doc Robbins rattle off details- the same ones he'd heard three times before. Sexual assault, no semen, blunt force trauma to the head, no fragments. After the autopsy he finished off the paperwork and threw himself into looking at slides from that scene and the previous ones, trying to find something he hadn't seen before.  
  
Catherine found him four hours later going over case-notes for the umpteenth time. He didn't even notice her come in, but she'd grown used to that, when he was concentrating. He jumped when she gently shook his shoulder, placing a steaming cup of coffee on the table. "Shift's over," she said, "Want to go get breakfast?" She was the only one who was comfortable enough with him to ask that, and most times he even agreed. Not today.  
  
"Thanks, but no thanks. I'll stick around for a while. There's something here I'm still missing." He gestured at the photos spread out in front of him. "Thanks for the coffee, though. I'm gonna need it." He hadn't slept well, if at all, in days.  
  
"Gil." Catherine was exasperated, and let it show. "You've been staring at these for hours, you've logged in more overtime than Sara in the past month, if that's at all possible- take a break. Besides," she added as he tried to defend himself, "you can't stick around. Ecklie's threatened to lodge a formal complaint against you if you keep 'encroaching on his office time and space', end quote."  
  
"I'm in my own office, on my own time." Gil frowned. "Ignore him. I'll see you tomorrow." Catherine nodded, conceding defeat.  
  
"Promise you'll go home?"  
  
"Eventually." He half smiled. Catherine sighed and left. Gil didn't even notice. Hours later hunger drew him out of his office and into the hallway. Immediately he wished he hadn't come out. The sunlight was far too bright. Wait- sunlight? What time was it? He glanced at his watch and found it was nearly noon. An unpleasant voice intruded upon his surprise, and he turned and saw Ecklie striding towards him with a thunderous expression. Gil didn't even try to hide his distaste. "Anything I can do for you, Conrad?"  
  
"You can start by noticing me when I call you for five minutes straight." Ecklie sneered, "Then tell me what you're doing here."  
  
"I work here." Gil answered mildly, hiding his chagrin. Of all the people for his hearing to fail with, it had to be Ecklie. They'd had the argument many times before, and he was well versed in his lines, but today he was simply too tired, distracted and desperate for coffee to get into it.  
  
"Yeah, well, this is my shift and you're getting in my people's way." Ecklie replied coldly. Gil shook his head to clear it as well as to refute his colleague's claim.  
  
"Give it a rest, Ecklie. I stick to my office, you stick to yours. This argument is a waste of time." He turned and tried to walk away, but Ecklie grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He also managed to piss him off. A lot. "Get your hands off me!" He was irrationally, unproportionally angry- there was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to punch the other man. Ecklie's face bore a smirk of ugly victory.  
  
"Just so you know, I've put in a formal complaint against the entire night- shirt for disturbing my team's work." Then he added in a vicious whisper, "Just because your team can't solve their cases, doesn't mean mine should be bothered. We're taking more and more of your workload, did you know that?"  
  
Gil pulled his hand away in disgust. He hated these cheap tricks and low blows, especially when they hit. He said nothing, and Ecklie, thankfully, didn't bother him anymore. Machine coffee tasted vile, but he didn't even feel it going down. The day shift supervisor was right- they had a case to solve. By the time he finally got home he barely had time to shower, change and grab a sandwich before shift started again.  
  
Fortunately for all involved, the night's major case was an interesting one, and kept him distracted as well and flowing with the adrenaline of the challenge, so with the help of more coffee he pulled through without too many ill effects. By he time they finished processing evidence and interviewing witnesses it was nearly noon again, but they had a prime suspect and plenty of evidence to go on. Gil went to the break room for a re-fill and collided head-on with Catherine. He muttered an apology and moved on, but she still blocked his way, scrutinizing him.  
  
"Are you OK?" She asked, "You look like hell."  
  
"Thank you." He managed a smile, but felt it waver. "Had a good night?"  
  
"Hit and run, one burglary and suspected OD." she reported, "Under the circumstances, not bad. Think any of us can get some sleep before we have to wake up again?"  
  
"We can try, certainly." Leaving it at that, he continued on his quest for coffee. Re-fueled with caffeine and an aspirin to combat a fatigue-induced migraine, he went back to his office. This time he didn't even attempt to go home. He did sleep- half an hour at his desk, waking up in a cold sweat. Not even music or the quiet chattering of his cicadas could calm him down enough to try again. By the time the rest of the team arrived that night, he could barely see straight. People were looking at him oddly. It couldn't continue. He pulled Catherine aside. "I'm taking the night off, Cath. Can you hold down the fort?"  
  
Catherine looked at him, noting the dark circles around his eyes and the fact that he was barely standing. She nodded quickly. "Sure. Try to get some sleep, we'll be OK." She knew whatever was going on, if it was serious enough to get Grissom to spontaneously leave them stranded, it was best to let him do it and not ask.  
  
"Call me if there's anything I need to know." Gil said gratefully. He left Catherine to field the others' questions and left as quickly as he could. The cool night air washed over his face and cleared the fog in his head a bit, enough to tell him he would be putting himself and others in danger if he tried to drive. Contrary to popular myth, a cab stopped for him almost immediately.  
  
"Where to, man?" The driver, a young man with an accent Gil couldn't place, asked. His home address was on the tip of his tongue, but something made him hesitate. Slowly, he fished a battered business card out of his wallet and handed it to the driver. The young man whistled, but otherwise didn't comment.  
  
He must've fallen asleep during the drive, because it seemed they arrived seconds after leaving, and he was groggy, dizzy and his head was pounding. Somehow he managed to pay the driver and settle down on the stairs leading up to his destination. Whatever part of his mind remained rational was telling him to get up, go home and leave this bout of insanity behind him. A smaller yet far more convincing voice, however, told him this may be his only shot. With a deep sigh, he rose and rang the doorbell. A leggy redhead in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit opened the door, and before he could say anything, a familiar voice drifted down from behind her.  
  
"Mr. Grissom. What a pleasant surprise. I do hope you have a warrant this time?"  
  
"Lady Heather." He inclined his head. "No warrant. No case. I just want to talk to you." He should've called ahead. If she were busy, he would never work up the courage to come gain. Luck seemed to be on his side though.  
  
"My evening's clear. Come in." There was a lot more 'order' than 'welcome' in the words, and her voice was cool. He followed her to her sitting room, still full of masks. She started to set out the teapot and cups. "If I knew you were coming I'd have set the tea in advance, but I suppose we can both wait." He nodded. They both sat down. She seemed to be in no hurry, but it took him a long time to say the next words.  
  
"I need your help in a professional capacity."  
  
"Your profession," She seemed amused by his discomfort, "or mine?" **** Cliffhanger? Me? Well, I guess. 


	2. Part 2

Surrendering, part 2: A/N: Since I forgot to say it last time, I'll say it now- none of them are mine. Characters all belong to CBS and the guy who came up with them. This is where things get R rated, so if the kind of stuff that happens at Lady Heather's doesn't rock your boat, take another ride. Also, don't try this at home without safety precautions and making sure you're using the right things, please. A good bit of research went into this story.  
  
There will be a third part, sometime in the next two weeks. This picks up where the last one left off.  
  
*(*(*(*(  
  
"Your profession," She seemed amused by his discomfort, "or mine?"  
  
"Yours." He replied, swallowing. There, the words had been said. That he'd managed to surprise her wasn't a very big comfort.  
  
"Mine?"  
  
"Yeah." He breathed. His skin was too cold, his pulse too fast. He tried to tell himself there was nothing to be afraid of but it didn't work. His mind was racing in all directions, fatigue gone.  
  
"Sugar?" She asked suddenly, diffusing the tension and offering him a cup of tea.  
  
"Please." He said, grateful to steer the conversation away from his purpose.  
  
"You look tired," she commented, passing out cream, letting him keep the sugar. The steam and the aroma soothed him a bit, and he slowly relaxed.  
  
"Long nights. A few bad cases." He replied, slides flashing across his mind.  
  
"The dead kids?" she surprised him, "I keep an eye on the newspapers, and that's been all over the news. I even caught your name a few times." He grimaced in distaste. "I didn't know it was bad enough to drive you here, though."  
  
"It's pretty bad." He agreed, sighing. "I've been in the business long enough to handle most of it, but there are no leads, at all, and after a month it just gets so frustrating." he smiled self-deprecatingly, "I guess I'm more used to finding the perps quickly. Something this evidence-free hasn't happened in years."  
  
"What did you do the last time it happened?" Lady Heather asked.  
  
"Lived through it." Gil shrugged. "It was over a longer period of time, nearly six months, and I was younger then, I could handle not sleeping for a week, and I didn't have a unit to run. This is going too fast, and the media interest isn't helping." He stopped again, "And these are children."  
  
"Dead children would bother anyone," Lady Heather nodded, "but this is bothering you on a deeper level." With another surprise shift, she asked, "What's your time frame?"  
  
"Twenty seven days." he answered automatically, then felt like kicking himself. "Oh. Tonight, I suppose. Although I took tomorrow night off as well, just in case." he flushed slightly. She smiled.  
  
"This case is really taking up a lot of your attention. Starting to affect your work?"  
  
"Not yet, at least. People tell me I'm cranky, but that could be lack of sleep."  
  
"What do you want, Mr. Grissom?" She asked abruptly. Gil thought about that for a while, his mind churning in circles, his throat dry. Finally he gave up.  
  
"I don't know." He looked up at her, feeling frustrated, angry with himself and quite helpless. He stood up. "I-I should leave. I'm sorry I wasted your time. Thanks, for listening." he muttered, turning away. His feet felt like lead, and on so many levels he hoped she'd call him back. It seemed to be his lucky evening.  
  
"I didn't say I was done with you, Mr. Grissom." She said. There was no threat in her voice, but it was commanding enough to make him stop cold. "Sit." he walked back to the couch and sat with a thump. "Now, what do you want." Slowly.  
  
"I want your help." he said, closing his eyes to make it easier. "I need to unwind before I do something dangerous." he trailed off. Was it enough?  
  
"And you've tried everything? Bugs, roller-coasters, even sex?" she asked, still looking infuriatingly amused with him.  
  
"Do you really think I'd have come it I had any alternatives?"  
  
"You would have come eventually." she said. "You find us fascinating."  
  
"I find you fascinating." he said, more boldly than he would've been if he thought it mattered. "Besides, I still owe you an apology."  
  
"I told you, Mr. Grissom, an apology is just words." She stared right through him, it seemed, seeing right down to his soul. "I can't help you."  
  
"Why not?" he sounded petulant and childish to his own ears.  
  
"Because you don't trust me, Mr. Grissom. My profession, as you call it, is all about trust. Think- are you willing to put yourself entirely in another person's hands? To trust them to do what's good for you, to control you?" It was clear to both of them he didn't come there looking for someone to dominate. Gil pondered that for a long time. He really didn't know. Self control and privacy were two things he cherished, and giving them up would be difficult, to say the least. However, he asked himself, would he rather lose control on his own, which he was sure would happen soon, or relinquish it to someone who, despite their short acquaintance seemed to know him intimately? Still, he had to face facts.  
  
"I'm not sure." he admitted. "It would be hard, but I think, since it's you."  
  
"You thought I could be a murderer." She pointed out flatly. He flinched, immediately on the defensive.  
  
"I couldn't discount any of the suspects, and the evidence was against you at first." he stumbled on the words, "I apologized!"  
  
"No, you said you owed me an apology. You never actually got around to it."  
  
An instinct told him not to remind her she'd stopped him from doing it twice. "You're right. I apologize for the unpleasantness and the discomfort I caused you, but I was doing my job."  
  
"Good." she smiled, pleased with him and with herself. "I accept. And remember that line later tonight- I'll just be doing my job as well." A small thrill of fear ran up Gil's spine, but at the same time he was almost dizzy with relief.  
  
"You'll do it then?" He asked unnecessarily, but needing to hear it said.  
  
"I'll do it, and personally, which is rare. But you're special, Mr. Grissom. I like you." She stopped, thinking. "Tell me, who did you leave the note with?"  
  
"What note?" He was genuinely baffled at first, then remembered and his chagrin was embarrassingly easy to see, "Oh. Um."  
  
"The note, Grissom," Lady Heather prompted, "which you left with someone you trust, at the office maybe, telling them to either cover for you or send a search party, possibly both."  
  
"Catherine." Gil breathed, "Telling her I was taking tomorrow off and to look for me at home if I didn't call her by then."  
  
"Why at home?" Lady Heather was still smirking like a Cheshire cat. Gil shifted in his seat uncomfortably.  
  
"I left another note there, telling them I was here. I thought, if it wasn't a true emergency, that it's better if they didn't know. Although I trust Catherine with my life."  
  
"But not with yourself, do you? You're a very private person. I'm surprised you left a note at all. Do I really frighten you enough to risk such exposure?"  
  
"Yes." There was no point hiding it. "I think I'll be able to check in by tomorrow, but you're an unknown quantity. I don't know what's going to happen, and yes, that scares me." He'd seen too much not to be afraid.  
  
"Good. I like people who come here with a little fear in their hearts. And I like that you're honest enough to admit it." With two short steps she was tantalizingly close to him, one finger reaching up to touch his cheek. "Honesty is very important, Mr. Grissom. Whatever you feel, I need you to tell me, immediately. Understood?" He nodded and her expression softened. "Try to relax. Nothing is going to happen that you don't want and need. You can always say stop." But he didn't want her to stop. He had a vague feeling that he had to go through with this, or curiosity would drive him insane. His mouth was too dry to reply, his foot tapped nervously on the floor. "How much sleep have you had in the past week? And how much coffee?"  
  
"Not enough and far too much." He replied ruefully. "I can't sleep. It feels wrong somehow." She chuffed at that, but said nothing. He had no idea why he was explaining things to her. "You're a strange one."  
  
"Quite a compliment, coming from you." Her smile widened, "Why?"  
  
"Because you make me do things.say things. I feel like a bug under a microscope." It made him feel intensely uncomfortable. Exposed.  
  
"Turnabout's not much fun, is it?" she chuckled, "But it's good for you to talk, to let go just for a night. First step- cell-phone, pager, keys." She held out her hand. He gave her a blank stare. "Give them over, Grissom."  
  
"Why?" He asked. A true workaholic, he rarely spent any time away from his pager, at least.  
  
"Because I want you to focus on the here and now, not on your job. We're trying to get you to let go, right? Give."  
  
Shaking his head in frustration, he dug phone, pager and keys out of his pockets and handed them to her. Even as a first step, it was taking a lot of effort to relinquish even this amount of control. She smiled. "Good. Shall we go over the house rules?"  
  
He tensed again, almost nauseous from nervousness. "I guess."  
  
"The first one you already know- no sex on the premises." she started, sitting down behind him. Fingers snaked out to trail down his shoulders and neck. "Second rule- the safe word is sacred- say it and it all stops. Now, since this is your first time, I'll be the judge of what you need and how much you can take, and I need you, more than anything, to trust me. I know you, Gil Grissom, and I know what will make you feel better. Okay?"  
  
"Yeah." He found himself slightly breathless. Trust.It was a hard thing for him to do. He hoped he'd be able to.  
  
"Good. Now, I'm guessing you don't want to play a scenario?"  
  
"No." He answered decisively. "Just you and me."  
  
"Thought so. Let's go upstairs." She rose gracefully and he followed. In a way, the whole surreal scene felt like a strange dream. He wondered whether he'd wake up to find that it was. As they climbed the stairs, the ambient sounds got louder and the few people they met threw careless glances at him. He wasn't investigating their co-worker's death anymore; just another client. With sharp suddenness, he realized it was no dream, that he was actually going through with it, and nearly balked. Lady Heather looked at him over her shoulder, "Coming?"  
  
Somehow he managed to move his feet into the room. It was plain and functional, with heavy curtains and a plush carpet softening it's harsh lines. There was a sofa, several chairs and cabinets, and a desk. Hidden speakers flooded the room with soft instrumental music. Soft lights added to the cozy feeling in the room, marred only in Gil's eyes by the presence of chains and manacles in strategic spots, and the occasional loud scream. It wasn't bad though.  
  
"Sit." Lady Heather instructed, pointing at the sofa, "and take a deep breath." She sat behind him. Again, she started rubbing his shoulders, and after he got used to the touch he couldn't help relaxing. "From now on, you do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. You do not question me. And try not to analyze things." She could feel his frown. "I know it's a lot to ask, but try." He nodded. The silence stretched between them. After several minutes Lady Heather lowered her hands and sat up. "Alright. Clothes off."  
  
"Excuse me?" Even surprised, Gil stayed polite.  
  
"Take off your clothes, Gil." She repeated patiently, "Now."  
  
He wanted to refuse. For one thing, he wasn't in as good a shape as he wanted to be. His age was catching up with him, no matter how much he tried to work out and eat right. He just didn't have time. Most importantly though, he wanted to stay safe behind at least a physical screen, since she could read him so well. Still, he told himself, it was all part of the game. Slowly he stripped, detaching his mind from his body with practiced ease, distracting himself by folding his clothes meticulously and placing them on a chair. He knew he still blushed like a teenager. He tried hard to keep his back straight and his hands at his side when he turned to face her. She's seen it all already, he told himself. There's nothing new here for her; it's all routine. Somehow that didn't make him feel better.  
  
"Good boy, Gil." She smiled, "But I didn't tell you to fold them."  
  
He gaped. "You didn't- but I- I thought-" What did she want?  
  
"Exactly. You shouldn't think, Gil. Just do, precisely as I tell you, no more and no less. Clear? Now, lie on the couch, face down." She didn't even look at him as he did it, turning away to open a cabinet behind him. Gil stretched himself out full length on the couch and waited. The air was cool on his skin, but that wasn't why he tensed to keep from shivering. "Alright," Lady Heather was standing over him now, where he could see her, "talk to me."  
  
She kept catching him off-balance, unguarded. He was speechless, again. Lady Heather simply waited him out. Finally, with a deep sigh, he turned his head away from her. "I should've listened to Brass."  
  
"Oh?" He felt her weight settle on the edge of the couch, "And what did the good captain have to say?"  
  
"He said that if I had to have a midlife crisis, I should get a sports car. Said it was cheaper and less dangerous than playing games with you." Gil buried his face in the armrest and yearned for sleep.  
  
"I think he overestimates me, which has yet to be a bad thing. But what do you think?"  
  
He frowned, looking at her again. "I'm here, aren't I?"  
  
"That's not an answer. Tell me, am I dangerous?"  
  
"Maybe." He hedged, "But it's a risk I'm willing to take, even if it is just a game."  
  
"A game?" Her voice hardened. Definite danger here. "Is this a game, Mr. Grissom?"  
  
Uh-oh. He was Mr. Grissom again. Gil knew he had to say the right thing or she send him away. He knew he wouldn't find it. Talking wasn't his strong point. "I think life is a game." He replied thoughtfully. "We all play parts, follow a script that fits the persona and the occasion. I don't think it makes life any less real."  
  
Her voice was coldly angry. "If you think this is a game, Mr. Grissom, you can get dressed and leave right now. I will not waste my time on people who are not serious about this." Disappointment filled him, but he pushed it away, his face shuttered and his eyes blank. Slowly, he started to sit up only to be pushed down, much harder than he'd thought she could. "Only if you think this is a game, Mr. Grissom."  
  
She was giving him an out, but he just wasn't sure. He felt as if he was balancing on very thin wire, but he stayed put. "Alright." She sighed. "Let's show you this is not a game. This is," She paused, made sure he was looking at her, maintaining eye contact, "dead serious, if you'll excuse the pun. Hands out front." He obeyed, pushing down fear as she took of his watch and put it in her pocket. "Say goodbye to keeping time, Gil." She snapped surprisingly soft cuffs on his wrists, binding them together and immobilizing him almost entirely. They were stiff leather on the outside and felt on the inside, almost comfortable. "Wouldn't want to mark you where people could see- cuff marks would be awkward to explain at the office, right?" She was smirking again.  
  
"If that's meant to cheer me up, you're failing miserably." He said acerbically. She tapped him lightly on the shoulder.  
  
"Quiet. Be glad I'm explaining at all. Also, stop moving so much." He was following her with his eyes, straining to keep her in his line of vision at all times. "I'm not going to use any more restraints on you for now, but." She moved behind him, where he couldn't see her no matter how he turned. "Do you trust me, Gil?"  
  
"Yeah." He said almost inaudibly, then repeated, louder, "Yes." With no warning her felt something cover his eyes and the world went dark. Panic threatened, but he managed to calm himself. Lady Heather watched with interest as he twitched once, then went very still, his face pale under the blindfold. She was definitely getting to him. He started when she spoke again.  
  
"You are completely under my power now." Her voice was low, almost hypnotizing, "I can hurt you or cause you pleasure, as I see fit. Don't think- just focus on the sound of my voice." A bitter smile appeared for an instant, then was replaced by an expression of intense concentration. "Don't talk either, unless I tell you to." He didn't think he'd be able to talk, anyway. The only things keeping him anchored were the feel of the leather couch under him and the music in the room. As long as he could hear the music, he was ok. Every nerve was seething, body poised for flight, however impossible it would be in his captivated state. Lady Heather's footsteps were muffled by the carpet, but he heard her moving further away, then closer to him. A new scent wafted by him, and he had just enough time to wonder what it was before the first drop of melted wax hit his skin and he nearly bit his tongue in surprise. Lady Heather put a hand on his back, brushing the cooled drop of wax off. "Relax."  
  
She let the candle drip on him slowly, from fairly high up so it had time to cool off slightly. It drove Gil out of his mind, blindly anticipating the next drop, the next prick of hot pain, with no way of knowing where it would land. It made his entire body tingle. Just when he was finally getting used to the idea of wax, she exchanged the candle for an ice-cube from the small cooler in the cabinet. This time his start of surprise was a lot more noticeable, as well as his small frown of puzzlement. "Fire and ice, Gil." She whispered, "Don't think, just feel. Focus on the sensations."  
  
It was easy to do at first, alternating hot and cold, tingling all over, but it didn't last. The moment the newness of it wore off, the images came rushing in, mind working against body. Ice- cold bodies under the fiery desert sun, Cold dead eyes, searing grief in their parents' eyes, cold detachment and scorching media headlines, the icy trial behind the killer. He was astounded at how easy and right it felt to concentrate only on sensation, but the images still came. He closed his eyes tight and tried to banish them. She noticed him tense, of course. She always would.  
  
"What do you see, Gil?" She asked quietly, her voice almost swallowed by the music.  
  
"Nothing." he lied. He didn't want to talk about it, or he did, but something blocked him. Her hand smacked sharply on his rump. "Liar. Tell me."  
  
He sighed, "Do I have to?" The visions would go away soon. There was no need to trouble her with his problems. She slapped him again, harder.  
  
"Are you questioning my orders, Gil?" She sounded more amused than angry, "I swear, if this wasn't your first session, you'd be severely punished for this. I don't take disobedience lightly. Next time I won't be so lenient."  
  
There won't be a next time, the thought angrily. What right did the woman have to go digging in his mind? Another hard smack prompted him to turn his head towards her, even if she couldn't see his glare through the blindfold. "I wish you'd stop doing that."  
  
"Why?" She didn't stop, and it didn't even really hurt, but it was freaking him out. "I usually find that a spanking is the best cure for a raging case of guilt and self pity. It's good for you."  
  
He couldn't see how that was, but neither could he deny the guilt he felt, or the fact that it felt.almost good that she knew he felt guilty and couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't leave now, couldn't run away from her or from himself. He had no choice but surrender. He tried to shrug. "Whatever you say."  
  
"Whatever you say, mistress." She stressed, raining light, stinging smacks all over his butt and thighs. He didn't respond and she huffed. "So, Gil, what do you see?"  
  
He opened his mouth to answer when the music faded away. Silence surrounded him like a shroud. The world felt empty, as if he was deep underwater. His mouth snapped shut. He couldn't talk. It would come out wrong, he knew. Too loud. His heart hammered in his chest as he fought panic, frozen in fear.  
  
Lady Heather looked at him, still calm despite his obvious signs of distress. Gil was almost gray, gasping for breath and heading for a full panic attack, but said nothing. He felt choked by silence and darkness. When she finally whipped off the blindfold he blinked against the sudden light and gave her a look of utter helplessness and misery. She crouched down next to him, making sure he could see her, and spoke very clearly. "Can you hear me?" He shook his head. She ran her hand through his hair, and was slightly surprised when he leaned into her touch. "Why didn't you tell me?" His eyes opened wide.  
  
"You already knew!" He blurted out, then grimaced when he realized he could hear himself, only slightly muffled. He was not up to dealing with this now, so incredibly tired.  
  
"And if I did?" She questioned, holding his eyes, "Even if I knew, Gil, without saying it in so many words, you should've trusted me enough to tell me. You've endangered yourself by not giving me this kind of vital information." He looked away, which meant that at least he could hear her again. She forced him to look up by tugging on his hair lightly, pulling his head up. "Look at me when I talk to you! I asked you a question. I expect an answer."  
  
"I.I didn't know how to." He said, sounding old, tired and defeated. "I haven't told anybody. Going deaf is not really something to just bring up in conversation." And talking about it hurt more than a root canal. But it was strangely liberating to actually say the words.  
  
"You haven't told anybody? Not your co-workers, friends, supervisor? I hope you've told your doctor, at least."  
  
He glared at her, "Of course I told her. She said there's almost nothing she could do." Long suppressed bitterness welled up in him. "It's hereditary. My mother's been completely deaf for the past thirty years."  
  
"And?" He didn't want to go on, but she obviously expected another answer. There was nothing he wanted more than to get up and walk away. But he didn't say stop.  
  
"And I can't tell them. If I tell them," He was ashamed of himself as he spoke, but it had to come out, "If I admit it to them I'll have to admit it to myself. And it hasn't bothered me too much at work. Nobody's noticed yet." A lie, and they both knew it. It bothered him a great deal, at work and at home.  
  
"You know, I thought I could read you fairly well." Lady Heather looked straight through him again, "I never had you pegged as irresponsible. For a start, you could get into a lot of trouble with your supervisor for this, not to mention your friends. Beyond all that, you're putting yourself and others at risk."  
  
"I am not!" He didn't know why he bothered. "It hasn't interfered with my work. I've pulled myself off the bigger cases all year, and-" Beyond the shame and anger, he was ridiculously happy that somebody else knew, and that she was still listening to his crap. It felt good to hear someone else say the things he'd been telling himself all year, but like they actually meant it.  
  
"Be that as it may," She interrupted his words and thoughts smoothly, "You lied to me, broke my trust, and I'm not at all pleased with you." Her voice lowered ominously. With a quick movement she unsnapped the cuffs and his hands tingled as blood flowed more freely. "Get up." He did, rising slowly, feeling cold wax peeling off him. "Bend over that desk." She pointed at the other side of the room. The walk there felt like the last walk to the electric chair. He wondered if those two guys he'd brought to death row had felt like that. Lady Heather didn't even bother restraining him this time, so he instinctively grabbed the edge of the desk. "Good. Before we start, I want you to know that this is because you lied to me, but also because you need it." As he pondered the truthfulness of that sentence, she disappeared from his field of vision for a minute, then reappeared carrying a heavy paddle. It was, his trained eye estimated, about a foot long and maybe three inches wide. He paled even more.  
  
"For what's it worth," He gulped, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you." It hadn't been a lie- she simply hadn't asked. He was struck by how absurd his situation was, bent over the desk, naked. What was he doing there? He was a respectable man, an investigator who wielded authority and respect in his profession and with his people- how did he come to be under this woman's power? He could leave, but didn't. He needed this, more than he'd needed anything in a while. Understanding. She seemed to read him again, and half smiled.  
  
"Just words, Gil. I've told you before." She walked behind him and landed the first stroke with no warning at all. His eyes widened in shock for the millionth time that night. The next stroke landed harder, rocking him forward against the desk and pushing the air out of him in a quiet 'whuff'. Otherwise he took his punishment silently. It hurt about as much as he'd imagined it would- a lot, but as the fiery pain spread, he found, again, a strange sense of liberation. The intensity of sensation this time was such that he couldn't concentrate on anything else even if he wanted to. There was only the pain, getting worse and worse, just as he deserved. Just when he thought he wouldn't be able to stand it much longer, Lady Heather stopped. He breathed a quick sigh of relief, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. She walked around to face him again. "Feeling better?"  
  
He cleared his throat, blinked hard against the stinging in his eyes, regulated his breathing again, and slowly stood up. "Yeah.I think." He stumbled back to the couch in a daze. Walking was sheer agony, and he couldn't suppress a groan when he collapsed on it. "Damned if I know why, though."  
  
"Oh, you know why." She sat down in an overstuffed chair opposite the couch, close enough to touch if she stretched, but keeping her distance. "Think you can talk about it now? What's got you so worked up?"  
  
Even if he'd wanted to hold back, he just didn't have the energy anymore. He was steps away from it, and wasn't going to give up. "It's mostly the case." He started. "Dead kids get to me, even if little else does." Not true- things got to him, he simply never showed it. He couldn't afford to. "It's terrible, and the families." He closed his eyes. "I'm not really a people's person."  
  
"Sounds like a slight understatement."  
  
"If you want me to phrase it as Catherine does on her better days, I'm an 'insensitive, oblivious, over-analytical asshole'. I think I'm just better with dead people sometimes than with live ones."  
  
"OK, I'll take that. What else?"  
  
"The media, the sheriff, people at the office, they're all expecting things we can't give them, and the tension's taking a toll on my entire group, even the ones who aren't on this case. Something had to give."  
  
"Understandable. Now, about your hearing-"  
  
"I don't want to talk about it." It was a knee-jerk reaction. Some unbeaten part of him rebelled. He didn't want her pity, couldn't handle sympathy. Not yet. She sighed.  
  
"You're either not getting it or you're just very, very stubborn. I didn't ask whether you wanted to talk. I ordered you to tell me what's bothering you, and your hearing is a major part of it." If she pitied him at all, she didn't show it, which made it slightly easier, at least. Not much, and he was getting angrier.  
  
"What do you want me to tell you?" He asked, showing more of that anger than he'd intended. "That however I try to think about it, however rational and sensible I try to be, I feel like my life is over? That I'll have to quit my job and I don't know what I'll do with myself? That it seems my body's going out of control and there's nothing I can do about it?" He stopped, out of breath and shocked at his own outburst.  
  
"Yes." Lady Heather said calmly.  
  
"I just did." Gil said, at a complete loss. He couldn't catch his breath, drawing in short, harsh gasps.  
  
"You have an undiscovered flair for melodrama, Gil." Lady Heather chuckled. He glared at her furiously- she was mocking him! How dare she mock him? "I don't mean to say you don't have a point," she pacified him, "But you've been waiting to say that for a while, right?"  
  
"Some of it." He admitted, "But I mean it, too. I just don't know what to do."  
  
"Start by telling people. It's going to be hard, Gil, but it's really not the end of the world."  
  
"It's the end of my career." He said with a sad certainty. "I can't be a CSI without my hearing. It's too important a tool for me to lose."  
  
"You'll have all your other senses." She sounded sensible, serious, but still it provoked more anger from him. "You can use those."  
  
"No I can't! Losing my hearing is like.It's precisely losing one fifth of my reception capacity. I can't afford that. And I love my job, I live my job. If I quit, I'll just.drift." The very thought of losing his vocation chilled him.  
  
"I don't think you'll have to quit. Look, I don't know how your department works. You'll need your friends' opinion on this, and for that they need to know. Besides, you'll still be able to examine scenes and process evidence, right?"  
  
"I won't be able to run the unit, though." He replied, not at all cheered, "Even without the professional considerations, going deaf is a lot to handle." Saying the words again seemed to seal it in, erasing months of denial, making it final. "People will treat me differently, see me differently. And you're right, I'll get into trouble with the management over it, probably. I don't want to quit! I'm too old to find a new career, and way too young to settle down and write a book or teach. I'm just.It's scary."  
  
"I know it is." They both knew he could handle it, almost certainly, but she didn't need to say it. At least he was admitting his fear, which was a step ahead. Time to change tacks. "Have you been punished enough, Gil?"  
  
"What do you mean?" He asked uncertainly. He should've learned to predict these unpredictable changed in conversation, or at least gotten used to them by now.  
  
"I mean, will you be able to go back to the office tomorrow night and tell yourself you're doing the best you can ? Will you be able to sleep? Do you still feel guilty?"  
  
"Yes." He answered without having to think too much. "I mean, no, no and yes, I still feel guilty. I always do. Nothing to be done about it."  
  
"Wrong. This is going to take longer than I expected." He'd clammed up again, his face set and expressionless, and she had to be impressed. The man was past exhaustion, sore and confused and still he threw up walls around himself without actively thinking about it. He was teetering on the edge- she just needed to measure the force of the push to send him over. "Very well, if you still can't let it go, we'll continue."  
  
"Continue?" Gil echoed. Did he want her to go on? Would it even help, or would he just feel silly afterwards for thinking it would? Wasn't it wrong? But he needed it. He couldn't take the silent accusation he saw in people's eyes anymore. Somebody besides himself had to be angry with him. "Okay."  
  
"Okay." She nodded. She didn't tell him to move; he wouldn't have been able to if she had. She did motion for him to lift himself up and stuffed a cushion under him for better positioning. She carefully chose a medium sized cane from the cabinet. He'd feel this for a long time. He didn't even try to look back at her, didn't care what she did anymore. It was the most trust he'd put in anyone in his adult life. "What are you being punished for, Gil?" She asked, cold and hard. He didn't answer. The cane whistled through the air, landed with a loud crack, followed by a stifled yelp. "Tell me." The next stroke came lower, and another. He was gasping in pain at every stroke, still not crying out. The fourth stroke finally elicited a response, too low for her to hear. She lowered the cane and crouched down to his level. "What was that?"  
  
"I'm not doing my job." He whispered. "I'm supposed to-to follow the evidence, and catch the perp.the perpetrator," He was forcing the words out, "And I'm not doing it. And they keep dying, leaving more and more broken people behind them, and we can't stop it." He wasn't breathing properly again, managing only dry sobs, "We can't stop it." He tried to swallow; couldn't. Lady Heather was stroking his hair, making soothing noises like a mother cat.  
  
"Let it go, Gil," She crooned, "You're doing the best you can. It's going to be fine. Let it go." She went on stroking his hair as he cried, letting him ride it out until he'd completely exhausted every reserve he had. She disappeared for a moment before he'd had a chance to compose himself, returning with two cartons of juice and a pair of straws. He sipped his carefully, soothing a sore throat, still sniffling a few times. She waited 'til he was calm again.  
  
"Thank you." He whispered again, looked straight at her for the first time all evening. He was more relaxed than he'd been in years, his brain floating somewhere in space. Endorphins at work, he told himself, just what he needed.  
  
"You're welcome." She replied warmly. "I take it we were successful?"  
  
"I think so, yeah." He said, levering himself up and wincing. "Ow." Then he yawned and gave her an apologetic look. "Could I.could I stay here for the night?"  
  
"Of course. I could set you up in an extra room, if you'd rather not stay here." Lady Heather scanned the room with her eyes, then looked back at Gil, who shook his head.  
  
"Not here, please." He started to rise, hissing in pain, and reached for his clothes. She slapped his hand away.  
  
"I didn't say you could get dressed. Let's go." She stood up and held out to him.  
  
"Go? But." He had little energy to argue, but every bit of propriety he had rebelled against this ultimate indignity. "I can't!"  
  
"Can't?" Lady Heather pinned him down with a stare, "Or don't want to? I gave you an order, Gil."  
  
He didn't want to. He couldn't do it. But why bother? She'd have her way eventually, and most of him was still too blissed out to care. With a loud sigh he straightened. "As you say, Lady Heather."  
  
"You're getting there." She said approvingly, reaching up to ruffle his hair. He was too busy wondering whether he'd finally find proof that it was possible to die of embarrassment to notice where she was leading him, and was surprised when she stopped. It was a small bedroom, containing only a single bed and a bedside table with a reading lamp. There was no sound at all, and he worried for a moment, but she dispelled his worried quickly. "This wing is insulated." She explained. "We run almost around the clock, and even the aberrant have to sleep sometimes. My bedroom is down the hall, but I won't be there."  
  
"Oh." He tried to sound casual, "Another client?" He was too tired to hide anything, especially from her.  
  
"No. I have to oversee business, though. I told you, Gil," She tilted her head, touching his cheek, "You're special. I don't have that many clients who receive my personal attention."  
  
He shrugged. Now that most of the burden he'd been carrying was gone, her nearness was sharper, but he couldn't do anything about it. It could wait. "Could I just have my pager back?" He wanted to restore at least a shred of normalcy to the night. She shook her head again.  
  
"No. You'll have it back when you leave. I want you to get a quiet night, what's left of it. I'll see you in the morning." She left without even giving him time to asked what time it was.  
  
Had this been any other night he would've lain awake for hours, going over notes and pictures in his mind. Tonight, however, he was fast asleep before his head hit the pillow.  
  
He awoke an unknown time with sunlight shining directly on his face, and tried to turn away from it with a groan. He hated direct sunlight. He also hated waking up in a strange room, in a strange bed, naked and feeling as though he'd had some bizarre accident with sulfuric acid. For a fleeting moment he thought he was back in college, then remembered what he'd done that night. Gil wasn't a man given to profanity, but he didn't know the words, and a low stream of curses accompanied him as he rolled to his feet. He found his clothes, his watch, his keys and a toothbrush still in its pack in a pile on the floor. It was past nine o'clock, shift had been over for two hours. His cell and pager weren't there, which he took as a good sign- Lady Heather wanted to see him before he left. Gil got dressed, found the bathroom and splashed water on his face. His face in the mirror hadn't changed, but the mellow feeling he'd had before hadn't faded either. He hoped no one at work would notice if he walked strangely tonight. Then he went looking for Lady Heather. A young man on the ground floor gave him a downright disturbing look, but directed him to her office.  
  
"Good morning, Gil." She sat in a high backed leather chair behind a heavy wood desk. The room was furnished like an old fashioned principal's office, with books lining the walls, filing cabinets and a door which he guessed led to the sitting room. "Slept well?"  
  
"Mostly. Nice décor." he commented. Quite wisely, she didn't invite him to sit.  
  
"We sometimes use this room for school scenarios, but I like to keep my files here as well." She said. "You're looking better."  
  
"Thank you. Again. It was.a fascinating experience. Not at all what I expected." Awash in the morning light, she was breathtaking, and he found it hard to talk. "It was." Indescribable is what he wanted to say.  
  
"Don't mention it." She smiled. "It was a favor," stressing the word, "between friends."  
  
"Oh." He floundered again. What was her rate for the night, anyway? Then he chastised himself for thinking that. She'd said it was a favor. And yet.  
  
"You could buy me breakfast." She suggested, showing him again how well she could read him. He half smiled and decided to leap into the deep end.  
  
"I'll do better. Let me cook you breakfast."  
  
"At your place?" He nodded shyly. "That depends," There was a wicked gleam in her eyes, "What's your policy about sex on the premises?"  
  
"Oh, I don't mind it." Gil smiled for the first time in three weeks, "I don't mind it at all." 


	3. Conversations in the morning after

Surrendering part 3- Conversations in the Evening After  
  
(A/N: This has been a long, long time in coming, and I apologize. Not quite he epilogue I think you'd expect, but let's leave Gil and Heather some privacy, ok? Still not mine, and after the fourth season I'm kinda happy about it.)  
  
Catherine was staring at him again. She'd been giving him knowing looks all night, and it was starting to get on his nerves. Not that he saw that much of her, since she was still paired with Nick, but Gil knew she knew something, and it bothered him. The night went well, despite that small irritation. It seemed the last child whose body had been found two nights before had managed to take a good sized chunk out of his attacker before he died, and there was still some of it in his mouth. Getting any good identification out of it would be difficult, but Gil trusted Greg's abilities. The lead cheered him immensely. In fact, it raised the spirits of the entire team, even those who weren't on the case. Besides, after a night and half a day with Lady Heather, followed by a solid six hours of sleep, Gil was a whole new man. But Catherine still knew something. As the shift drew to a close, Gil braced for impact.  
  
"Hey Grissom," She leaned against his open door to his office, where he was inspecting some slides through a microscope. He looked up at her, trying for innocent and getting mostly worried, "wanna come over for breakfast?"  
  
Hell, better at her place with a few drinks in him than at the office, Gil thought. "That would be nice."  
  
"Great. Let's go, then- I have to get Lindsey to school. Without a backwards glance she walked away, leaving him to rush through putting his papers in order and run out of the building. Sliding into his car for the first time in three days, he was grateful Catherine was taking her own car and couldn't see him fidget and shift in his seat the entire drive to her house. Despite the 24 hours that had passed, sitting was still not high on his priority list. Perversely, he almost enjoyed the pain, a reminder of the wonderful night he'd had. He was still relieved when he got to Catherine's, though. Lindsey was already dressed and ready for school, drinking her milk at the kitchen table. When she caught sight of them, she put the cup down hard enough to slosh milk all over the table and ran to greet them.  
  
"Mommy! Uncle Gil!" Gil only just managed to avoid a hug, "I'm so glad you're here on time..." Her eyes narrowed, "Are you staying for breakfast?" Gil nodded, smiling, and realized again how much he liked seeing the girl happy, "Oh, goodie! But...Mommy, can I stay with you? Just this once?"  
  
"No, baby." Catherine shook her head, "You need to go to school, and you know that." Lindsey gave her mom her best puppy eyes, which Catherine could resist after long years of practice, but which still made Gil melt, "Come on, or you'll miss the bus."  
  
"Why don't we take you out for ice cream after school?" Gil suggested. He vaguely remembered that Catherine disapproved of these outings, but he just couldn't send her to school this miserable. Catherine scowled at him, but Lindsey's squeals of delight were worth it. Catherine kept up the frown as she saw her daughter and the babysitter off, and Gil busied himself with wiping up the spilt milk from the table. When she turned to him, still frowning, he tried to avoid the impending storm. "Catherine..."  
  
"Don't 'Catherine' me, Gil, "She said, exasperated. Still, she smiled at him ruefully, "It's a good thing you don't come over very often, or that girl would be spoiled rotten. It's almost cute how she turns you into a big teddy bear."  
  
Gil blushed slightly, "What can I say, she's adorable. Has been since day one." He'd seen her then, hours after birth, as he waited at the hospital with all the nervous fathers, not even bothering to explain that he wasn't the husband, just a colleague who'd cared enough to drive her to the hospital. He smiled at the memory, and saw the smile echoed on Catherine's face.  
  
"Your usual?" She asked, heading for the kitchen.  
  
"Please." He followed, "Lots of ice." With a familiarity bred out of countless mornings in her kitchen, he pulled eggs out of the fridge, found a frying pan and started scrambling eggs for both off them. Catherine handed him his drink and sipped at her own, watching him. She tried to mask her amusement as he scooped eggs and toast on two plates, passed one to her, then leaned casually against the counter instead of sitting down. Evidently she didn't quite succeed, because he gave her a questioning look. "What?"  
  
"What what?" she looked innocent.  
  
"You've been acting like a cat who got the canary all day, Cath." He sighed, "If you have something to say, say it."  
  
"Oh, I don't have anything to say," She replied smugly, "Except that I hope you remembered to give Lady Heather my regards."  
  
His shoulders slumped. "You went to my apartment after shift yesterday?"  
  
"During." She corrected. "Did you really think I wouldn't, after I found your note?"  
  
"Not really." he shrugged, resigned to his fate. "Well, go on." He said when she didn't continue.  
  
"Go on what?"  
  
"Asking me whether I'm crazy, teasing," He raised an eyebrow, "imagining."  
  
"I am not imagining!" She blushed furiously, throwing an olive at him. But she was, of course.  
  
"Uh huh." Gil nodded, "She does send her regards, though." Now that Catherine knew, he thought maybe it wasn't so bad.  
  
"So." Catherine had kept silent with difficulty for nearly a minute.  
  
"So?"  
  
"Had to be something big on your mind if you went to her. I'm guessing you did more than talk- even Brass noticed you're walking kinda stiffly tonight."  
  
"I knew working with trained investigators was a bad idea." Gil shook his head, "And no, I'm not telling you. Going over it once with Lady Heather was bad enough."  
  
"She actually got you to talk? Amazing. If I'd known pain was the way to go, I'd have invested in some equipment and done it myself years ago." Catherine's smile took most of the threat out of her words, but not all. Gil shuddered.  
  
"No, thank you. I much prefer your regular method. Hurts less. Speaking of, I need a refill." Her method was to get him as drunk as he allowed her to, in an effort to lower at least some of his walls. Most days he stopped after one; some, he'd let her get him really drunk. Today seemed mostly normal, with an extra bit in to calm his nerves. Catherine predicted he'd stop after that one.  
  
"OK then, talk to me. You've done it once with Lady Heather- how hard can it be?"  
  
"You have no idea." He took a long gulp of his scotch. It's now or never, Grissom, he told himself. Deep breath to steady himself, then he mumbled into his glass, "I'mlosingmyhearing."  
  
"What?" Catherine wasn't quite certain she'd heard right.  
  
"I'm losing my hearing." Gil stressed each word carefully. It wasn't getting easier, saying it over and over again, and he bafflement of Catherine's face wasn't helping.  
  
"But...How, why, and can you do anything about it?" The investigator in Catherine can to the forefront, leaving the rest of her to deal with the shock of the revelation.  
  
"Well..." Gil hedged, although a barrage of questions was easier to deal with than a more emotional response. "I found out last year, it's hereditary- otosclerosis- it causes the bones in your ears to harden. There's a possibility of surgery, but I'm not sure..." He looked down, "I've kind of been in denial for a while."  
  
"You can say that again." Catherine was past the shock now, and working her way towards anger at having this information kept from her, "You've known for a year? I can't believe none of us figured it out. We all thought you were just spacier than usual."  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you..." Gil tried, but the words were empty. "And I can't believe none of you saw it, either. Some investigating team you are."  
  
As usual, Gil's attempt at humor fell flat as Catherine's eyes narrowed in anger, "Oh, so it's our fault now?" He tried to back away but she gripped his arm, "You're not running away, Gil. You can't just drop something like this in my lap and leave."  
  
"I'm not leaving," Gil pulled his hand away abruptly, "And you have every right to be angry."  
  
"Damn straight I do!" Catherine agreed, "Jesus Gil, I'm your best friend...Still," She stopped him before he could defend himself, "I think I would've done the same thing in your position. You've never been one to ask for help." She sighed, "I'm sorry I yelled."  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." Gil repeated quietly, meaning it this time. "It's hard to tell people something you're not telling yourself." It was hard on him, her anger, and the disappointment he could see in her eyes. He knew the others would be the same, veiled disappointment and hurt- maybe not so veiled, even. He grew tired of standing, and sat down as far from Catherine as he could, wincing slightly as he did. She hid a smirk behind her hand, breaking the somber mood.  
  
"I suppose it is." she agreed, "So, what are you going to do?"  
  
"I don't know. Like I said, surgery is an option, and from what I've heard and read there's a high chance of success, but..." He shrugged, "I don't know."  
  
"Do you have a second opinion, or have you spent the entire year wallowing in self pity?" The question came out harsher than she meant it to, and Catherine regretted the words almost as soon as she'd said them. They hung in the air between them heavily. He answered, his face set, his words clipped and precise.  
  
"That wasn't very nice, Cath."  
  
"I know it wasn't. I'm not even going to say I didn't mean it." Catherine closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You went through this once already- what am I supposed to say? This isn't like you, Gil."  
  
His eyes hardened, "What isn't? Sharing?"  
  
"That too." Catherine conceded, "But I meant running away from stuff like this. It's not like you." He was always the strong one, the one who kept her from running away.  
  
"Cath, this is the scariest thing that's ever happened to me." Gil tried to explain tiredly, "I wasn't thinking too clearly. I just didn't want to deal with it. And since I somehow managed to hide it, I didn't have to. It would've come up eventually, I'm sure, but..."  
  
"You weren't going to bring it us yourself, huh?" Catherine looked at him carefully, seeing the fatigue even half a day of sleep couldn't erase, the fear and worry in his eyes, and found it very difficult to stay angry. "Been there, done that. Welcome to the river." He smiled at that, but they both soon grew serious again. "Gil, what if it happens at work? In the field, or in court, or during questioning?" He chuckled joylessly.  
  
"Already happened a few times. Even in court. I don't think anybody noticed." Except for Philip, but she didn't need to know that.  
  
Catherine's lips pursed in a frown. "You're going to be in trouble when this gets higher up, you know."  
  
"I know. Hell, even if they don't fire me, I'll have to qit." He felt his heart tear a bit every time he said that or thought about it. Catherine's hand was on his again, warm and comforting.  
  
"You don't have to." She promised forcefully, "Sure, you might be limited but you're still the best thing that's happened to the department in years. They won't want to lose you- we'll figure something out. Besides, you don't know surgery won't do it." She paused, thinking about his options. "You'll have to teach us to sign."  
  
"I can read lips." He scowled, waving her away. She glared at him, holding his eyes until he lowered them. Not many people, not even Catherine, could usually stare him down, but she was angry and he knew she was right. "Yes, okay, I'll teach you to sign. You, at least. God, Cath," He gave her a slightly desperate look, "I don't think I can do this." She scooted closer to him and hugged him hard. Puzzled but grateful, he raised an eyebrow, "What's that for?"  
  
"You looked like you needed it. And there are more where that came from, so get used to the idea." Catherine nearly laughed at his bafflement. "You can do this, Gil. We'll help you."  
  
"I don't need-"He started again, then stopped at her dagger-glare. "I don't want your help." He amended quietly.  
  
"I know. That's why I said you're going to get it whether you like it or not. I assumed you wouldn't." She kept one hand draped across his shoulder, grounding him in reality before he had a chance to escape into his mind, keeping him seated when he wanted to get up and leave. "But we will all want to help you however we can. It'll be harder if you fight us, but we'll still do it. I like a challenge."  
  
Gil really thought he should remove her hand. It was unprofessional and inappropriate, but really very comforting. Her being there did make it easier. "There's...There's really very little you can do." He repeated, "I mean, I wouldn't want-"  
  
"To impose?" She stopped him again, serious again. "You're not. Believe me, there isn't one of us who wouldn't do anything to help. Is that so hard to accept?"  
  
It was, and Gil wasn't as certain of it as she was. Besides, why would they want to help, and what could they do, anyway? He wasn't used to needing people. His skepticism was clear, and Catherine sighed.  
  
"Fine, don't believe me. You'll see I'm right tonight when you tell everybody."  
  
"Tonight?" He croaked. It was too soon by far. He needed time, needed to prepare himself, wanted to avoid it for as long as possible. Going over it so many times in such a short time was wearing him out.  
  
"Not better time." Catherine declared, nodding. At his obvious reluctance she shook her head. "You'll have to talk to them eventually, Gil, just to get it over with." Then she said the words he truly dreaded, "If you don't tell them, I will."  
  
"You have no right to do that, Catherine." He replied coldly, just this side of anger again.  
  
"I can and I will. For the good of the team, before somebody gets hurt. Before somebody notices, and they will, you know. They'll want to know, Gil."  
  
"That's the problem!" He burst out, not quite shouting but angry all the same. "I don't want my private life feeding the rumor mill. I don't want them staring at me, I don't want them whispering about me, I don't want them to know! Any of them." he office rumor industry was a prospering business, and like the looks, the gossip wouldn't go away as they had in the past. His privacy would be forfeit, stripped away on the alter of full disclosure. It would be irritating at best, drive him insane at worst.  
  
"Grissom, you can't hide this forever!" Catherine was equally angry now, "There won't be any rumors or gossip if you just told people to their faces." His stubborn refusal to understand was really starting to anger her.  
  
"Oh, so I should just come up to people and say 'good evening, how are you and by the way, I'm going deaf'? That would make me a real hit at dinner parties." Where was the bitterness coming from? Catherine didn't deserve this. It wasn't her fault and it wasn't fair. He stood up. "I'm going home before we both say more things we'll regret later." He knew without checking that his pulse was way, way past ninety. She made no move to stop him as he walked to the door, and he was too busy with angry, bitter thoughts to notice the sudden lack of ambient noise. He slammed the car door behind him, sat down hard, ignoring the pain lancing up to his shoulders fro the impact. The moment he turned the key, though, he realized he wasn't going anywhere. The radio lights came on, but no sound. He clapped his hands once- nothing. Well, he was stuck there until it passed. He didn't even trust himself to walk home, unfocused as he was. He'd probably never see a coming car. He had nothing to do but think and get angry- at himself for losing his temper, at Catherine for making him lose it, at the unfairness of life. His phone vibrated in his pocket- Catherine, of course. He turned it off without answering. Shoulders slumped, every inch of him showing defeat, he got out of the car and back to her house. The door opened before he had a chance to knock. He looked at her wordlessly. Her eyes filled with tears. Silently, she ushered him back in.  
  
"Don't cry, Cath..." He said, not hearing himself but knowing from the relief on her face that it came out right. "Please...It's not that bad." He hated to see her cry. He still couldn't hear anything, but she made an effort to speak clearly though her vouce was unsteady.  
  
"I'm sorry- I shouldn't be- I mean, you're not- oh, hell." She swallowed, "It's a lot to take in." He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and pointed at it, then at a pen lying on the coffee table. No kidding. She gave a shaky laugh at that, and added her own scribble. Is this how it's going to be?  
  
Hope not. He wrote back, still not trusting his voice, Put in for surgery yesterday morning. They said six weeks. Thank God, she wasn't that close to tear anymore. Sorry I walked out.  
  
It's OK. Sorry I let you. Catherine pulled him down to the sofa again and hugged him again. With a wrenching 'pop' the sounds of the world snapped in again and he flinched. "What? Is it back?"  
  
"Yeah. Dizzy. Sorry."  
  
"Stop apologizing already! You've done enough of it. It's okay."  
  
"You know, this is so much worse than I thought it would be." He admitted, "I thought nothing could be worse than Lady Heather's reaction, but... this is different. Worse."  
  
"What did she do?" Catherine couldn't help asking. Gil grimaced.  
  
"Never mind. Let's just say that if I died today Doc Robbins would have an interesting puzzle on his hands."  
  
Catherine whistled quietly, "That bad?" She took his hand and turned it over, "No marks."  
  
"She's very discreet. She was careful." He pulled away, "Could we not talk about that?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm getting the most disturbing mental image here. And this is still worse?"  
  
"Yes. I should've told you. I let you down."  
  
"Stop dwelling on that." Catherine frowned again, "Start thinking on how you can fix it." A thought occurred to her then- "Gil, have you told your mother?" She was the only one of the team who'd met her. Gil's face was all the answer she needed. "You haven't, have you?" He shook his head, "Oh, Gil...How could you?"  
  
"How could I tell her? I'm a big boy, Catherine, I don't need to tell my mother everything." But she was right again, and she knew it. "Why should she worry needlessly?"  
  
"She'd want to know, and you know it. Unlike us, she could actually help you deal with this better. She's been there- she's still 'there', in fact." Catherine considered this new fact for a moment, "You know, I think you should take this weekend off and go see her. You haven't done it in over a year, and this isn't the kind of thing you could tell her by e-mail."  
  
"I'm not going anywhere." Gil planted his figurative heels irately, "And you can stop this right now."  
  
"Fine. It'll only take me one call to let her know, same as with the team. One call, that's all it's going to take to bring her here, if you won't go there. You know she'll come." Catherine steeled herself for the stricken look on Gil's face. She was hurting him, but she had to do it.  
  
"You wouldn't."  
  
"I would." She replied firmly, "She loves you, and you can't give me the worrying her excuse- you'll just end up hurting both of you."  
  
"I don't know why I put up with you sometimes." Gil grumbled, ready to give in. He loved his mother dearly, after all. "I'll talk to my mom later today, alright? When I get home. And I think I really should leave before you talk me into anymore insanity."  
  
"Now that you mention it, you don't eat enough vegetables..." She smirked.  
  
"Quiet! I have spent the last 48 hours bullied by women who think they're helping. No more. I'm going to go home, have a beer and watch sports." He smiled as well.  
  
"We are helping, honey." She grinned at him, "And you're being stubborn, as always. Now go home and go to sleep. I have a phone-call to make."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"I need to call Lady Heather and thank her. And maybe get a few tips for next time you get stubborn." At the scheming look in her eyes Gil blushed furiously and retreated as fast as he could, her laughter trailing after him.  
  
As he drove home that morning, he could finally smile. Maybe things would turn out alright anyway. 


End file.
